


my heart lingers in your hands

by born_as_a_nebula



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DON'T BE FOOLED, F/M, Hate-to-love, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, SMUT!, Soul Bond, Soulmates, This is a love story, be warned, bloodshed (not the virginal kind), bloody history between witches and fae, bridging the gap between supernaturals, but it takes a while before they get there, centaurs suffer in this story, fae!tom, fluff!, loads more that i can't thing of tags for, manipulating machinations, mild depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-08 06:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17381552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/born_as_a_nebula/pseuds/born_as_a_nebula
Summary: He grasped the hand holding his hair, and forcefully removed it from his person.“You will be my queen,” he told her, dark eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments.“I won’t,” she said with a daring flare in her eyes.His grip on her hand tightened until she felt her wrist bones grind together and had to clench her teeth to suppress a whimper.“Then you will be my whore.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the former LadyNightangerl18. This story has been imported from my old account. I plan to edit and continue this. Follow me on tumblr for more: born-as-a-nebulae

* * *

**my heart lingers in your hands**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Not all nightmares go away over time. Sometimes they grow as we do and one day we look back and see that they have transcended all the limits we tried our best to put on them to keep them contained – restrained away from us.

And perhaps it’s better to have this constant throbbing fear to keep us going rather than biding our time and living fearfully, jumping at every shadow and waiting, with dread that cripples the lungs and atrophies the limps, for another nightmare to take the place of the one we’d just escaped.

Sometimes, there’s comfort in familiarity, no matter how dark and dangerous.

* * *

  _When love rules, all hearts kneel._

_—unknown_

* * *

The creature had horns when it came to her window.

She saw it first as the shadow of a tree, then she looked closer and it was a crouching figure.

Its face was bathed in darkness, only its outline was clear as it dug taloned feet into the frame of her window and peered into her room.

It did not enter and she soothed herself with the thought that it would not until she gave it permission, like one of those fae things Nana used to tell her about.

That thought led to a spiral of anger and grief and numbness that briefly made her forget about the creature hovering at her window. (She wanted very much to call out to Nana, but the woman would not respond – not to anyone other than a medium, that is.)

Hermione looked back at the creature and watched with wide eyes as its horns grew from a fist size to that of a forearm’s.

“Brat,” it said in a raspy, low voice. A voice that Hermione found both frightening and morbidly fascinating. (A voice that was so different from the one she had heard it speak in before.)

She couldn’t think; her lungs constricted as fear clamped her airways shut.

Like the child she was, she ducked her head under the covers and willed the evil to go away. The creature growled menacingly, causing her to press her body deeper into the mattress, as if the stuffing and cloth might somehow absorb her into its fold and protect her.

The creature shrieked, and it was a blood-curdling sound that chilled her to her bones.

Where were her parents, she wondered desperately, surely they had heard that awful sound?

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, repeating one word over and over again.

God, god, god, _god_.

As if her prayers had been answered, the shriek cut off and the air grew silent.

Feeling braver than the situation called for, she peeked one eye over the covers, not sure what to expect and not daring to hope.

The creature was gone.

She was still wide-eyed and trembling when the clock struck midnight and she turned nine – eight hours after the burial of her Nana.

* * *

  _There was a witch inside of her, and it wanted to come out._

 _—born as a nebulae_

* * *

Hermione had always known about her heritage and imminent power. She’d always known her Nana was the longest living witch in her family in the last three centuries. She’d always known that Nana’s death would transfer all the older woman’s powers onto her – the heir to the dwindling Northern Witch Coven – and make her near invincible (because Nana’s wasn’t the only ancient power she would he hosting then).

She knew all this, and she dreaded it.

Dreaded it because she also knew that Nana had made a pact with the fae prince when Hermione was seven and on her way to Death’s doorstep.

Dreaded it because her protectors had denied her answers and not knowing the darkness she was to step into was worse than her darkest nightmares.

* * *

It happened like this:

Since before she could form all the shapes of the words she was learning, Hermione had an innate curiosity and disregard for limitations that was not encouraged in witches – and she questioned _everything_.

Her little family of Mama, Papa, and Mione often visited her Nana at her large house by the woods. There, she and Nana went into the shed in the backyard that stretched on for _ages_ and they practiced _magic_!

Mione learned how to float her favourite books and light candles and finally, _finally_ , she fluttered her fledgling magic in the air between solids and rang the old bell that made an awful clanking sound. Nana was so proud of her, called her the Brightest Witch of Her Age. Mione beamed in pride.

“That’s a very clever thing you did, my sweet,” Nana said to Hermione, patting the young witch on her busy head. “What would you like for your reward?”

Hermione scrunched her eyebrows together in thought. She looked about the rusty shed for something of note. Her brown eyes landed on a shelf of dusty books that she wasn’t allowed to read (not yet, Nana said).

She thought about trying her luck and was about to open her mouth to ask when a flash of something impossibly pale and iridescent caught her eye.

“What’s that, Nana?” Hermione’s little pointer finger was trained on a shelf of objects opposite the door. Specifically, on a long stick the colour of bone that was placed in a glass case and wedged between a cauldron and a gas lamp.

Nana grew quite as the proud smile on her face slid off. Her eyes were glazed as she walked to the shelf and removed the stick from its dusty case.

She held it reverently between her frail hands. “This is a very special wand,” she said quietly.

Hermione perked up in interest. “A wand? Like in the old stories? But I thought witches didn’t use wands anymore. Is it yours? Will I have it? Can I—”

“Slow down, my sweet,” Nana said with a laugh, expression lightened in the face of her granddaughter’s rapid-fire curiosity. 

Hermione stared up at the older woman expectantly, brown eyes shining with a need for answers.

With a shake of her head and a chuckle, Nana sat down and patted the seat next to her. Hermione scrambled into the chair, having to get on it on her knees before she straightened herself and sat properly.

“I’m going to tell you a very old story, darling, about our history. Would you like to hear it?”

Brown curls bounced and tangled as Hermione nodded her head fervently.

Nana gave her a stern look and wagged her index finger at Hermione. First, you must promise not to tell your parents.”

Hermione made to nod her head but paused. Not tell Mama and Papa? But they said never to tell lies. She pursed her lips. It wouldn’t be lying, she thought, she’d only _not_ be telling them something. There was a difference!

Smiling at her clever reasoning, she nodded her assent without hesitation.

Nana smiled fondly and began her tale.

“Once long ago, in a land not so far away, fae and witches lived alongside each other, separated only by a long line of ash trees and their own prejudice. They both had magic, same yet also different. The fae were wild creatures and their magic matched their essence. They were prone to magical outbursts spurred by strong emotions, and these outbursts sometimes breached the line of trees and impacted the lives of witches. The witches were still discovering all the possibilities of their magic and so could not protect themselves as well as we can now. Their numbers suffered greatly in those early days and they grew fearful of the careless fae. The Great Houses convened and decided they needed to strike against the fae, for the survival of the four Witch Covens.

“But the witches did not know their enemy, and so they devised a plan to send a brave, clever witch into the faelands to find their enemy’s weakness. They chose a young man of House Dumbledore, named Albus Percival Wulfric Brian. Albus was the most talented youth and eager to prove his worth to his Coven, therefore he was the perfect choice. The witches put their wands together and cast a glamour over Albus to make him appear fae, they then shrouded him in protective wards and sent him into the ash woods. Not much is said about his time with the fae, only that Albus did succeed – but not in the mission he was given.

“You see, my sweet, Albus was very clever. He saw and learned the ways of the fae, he drank their wine and ate their food and he befriended them until they loved him better than their own. He befriended the king, too. Gellert had been ruling for a century and he was wise, yes, but he was also rash and powerful and those two never went well together when it came to the fae. Gellert alone caused half of the outbursts. Albus performed many rituals to help keep his friend’s magic contained but nothing worked. One day, as Albus was cleaning his hut, he came across his wand, which had been hidden away for safekeeping. His quick mind realised that what the fae king needed was not a containment on his magic, but an anchor, something to channel his erratic magic through to make it easier to control.

“Albus traveled back to the witchlands and sought out Garrick Ollivander, the great wandmaker. With the knowledge Albus provided about the recipient, the wandmaker created a unique and powerful wand – he named it the Elder Wand. When Albus returned to the faelands, he cast off his glamor and presented the wand to Gellert. At first Gellert felt betrayed that his closest friend had deceived him about his true nature all along, but because of the love he had for Albus, Gellert forgave his closest friend and accepted the wand. And one swish of his new wand was all it took to convince the fae king that this was what the fae had needed all along. Gellert ordered Albus to have wands made for all the fae and Albus was overjoyed to have found a way to bring the magical groups together.

“Years passed, and the fae and witches grew less hostile. They were free to roam the lands of the other, so long as they did not harm anyone or enter with destructive intent. While the majority were happy, there was a group of fae who were not pleased by any of this. They called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis.

“Fae are wicked and spiteful by nature and these Knights were more so. They abducted Albus’ sister, Ariana, and cursed her into madness. Albus was devastated when he discovered this nefarious deed and, in his rage, he waged a great duel against Gellert. Gellert tried to reason with his closest friend but Albus was unreachable in his grief and anger. Albus struck down the fae king, took the Elder Wand for himself and fled to the witchlands.

“The fae were enraged beyond comprehension at the death of their king. Many snapped their wands and let their magic run wild in hopes of harming the witches. Albus had arrived in time to warn the witches of what he’d done, so they had enough time to put up protective wards that barred the fae from breaching the ash trees.

“The fae grew angrier and more restless, but they could not directly retaliate against the witches because of the wards. The Knights of Walpurgis came up with a wicked plan and spread news of the existence of witches in every village in the land and they used their magic to spur the hate of mortals. Thus, the despicable Witch Trials began.

“Witches had lived amongst mortals for ages in peace and autonomy. They’d never before been hunted so relentlessly. Wands were immediate identifiers and so they were discarded. Their magic became erratic with no wands to channel them through. We lost many elders and our connection to the land grew weak. It was the darkest years in our history.

“A decade after the hunts began, after we had lost nearly half of the Four Witch Covens, Albus took charge and led us into victory. He confronted and defeated the leader of the Knights of Walpurgis, Salazar Slytherin. Albus, as the winner of the duel, had a right to Slytherin’s wand and made to seize his battle spoil, but was intercepted by Slytherin’s grandson, Marvolo. Young Marvolo accepted the defeat on behalf of the fae and bargained the keep of Slytherin’s wand, Basilisk, for a promise that the Witch Trials would end. Albus accepted with the condition of an Unbreakable Vow and within a fortnight the hunts ceased completely, and the mortals were eradiated of their unnatural hate for witches.

“Although the witches were no longer being hunted, the horrors they’d lived through haunted them for the rest of their days. Being away from their magic for so long had left severe consequences. They tried to bond with new wands to restore their magic to its former glory, but it would not take. The witches grew so desperate that they resorted to performing dark rituals. Nothing worked. Some kept trying but many had given up and moved on and accepted the truth for what it was: magic would never again return to what it had once been.

“A year after the Defeat of Slytherin, a young woman of House Bones, Amelia, had given birth to a boy. He was sickly, and the healers could do nothing more to save him. Their potions were not strong enough to combat whatever ailed him. He was predicted to die within a week. In her desperation Amelia trekked to the highest hill in the witchlands on the night of the next full moon. There she beseeched the old gods to help her son and offered her life blood in exchange for his health.

“There was a shift in the air as her rich, red blood touched the grass and stained it crimson. The moon rays shining down on that hill shone brighter than the sun for a moment, so bright it was seen for miles in every direction. Amelia believed the light was a sign from the gods and her spirits were lifted. She rushed back home to her son but when she got there, she was devastated to find that his condition had not changed. She cursed the old gods and cried and screamed herself hoarse. When her fatigue caught up to her she succumbed to the dark with her boy clutched to her bosom.

“The next morning, Amelia was woken by the loud cries of her son. This was a miracle, for the boy had been too weak to utter a sound since his birth. The healers were called at once and they declared him a perfectly healthy baby. The witches were amazed, but Amelia…she was just grateful. There was a lightness to her that hadn’t been seen in a witch since before the Trials began.

“Another young mother, this one called Agatha, of House Longbottom nee Prewett, was plagued by sleepless nights due to her ill daughter. Once again, the healers could do nothing for the child. Amelia took Agatha to the hill and instructed her to do what she had done a few moons ago. The two mothers waited anxiously for the girl to get better and, by the miracle that is magic, she did. Soon after, every mother – and sometimes father – of a newborn child made the trip to the hilltop to offer their blood in exchange for the health of their babes.

“As the months went by, the witches found that the families who had performed the ritual were much more in tune with their magic, like in the days Before. And that is how the Ritual of Renewal was created. On the birth day of a witch family’s heir, the family’s paterfamilias or materfamilias offers a blood sacrifice and binds their magic to the heir’s core, so that when the head passes, the magic may be transferred to the heir and make them stronger. If the heir dies before the head, the next child becomes heir.

“But as the magic of the witches became more stable and powerful, Prince Marvolo of the fae could not contain the remaining knights of Walpurgis for long. The wards held them off, but consistent attacks made certain parts weaker. Centuries passed, the witches established great cities for themselves and made advancements in the mortal world for the betterment of humankind. The fae grew stronger, too. The few that had kept their wands passed it onto their heir, similar to the Ritual of Renewal.

“One day, years and years later, when the words Witch Trials no longer caused a panic, an incredibly powerful fae slipped through a crack in the wards, on All Hallows’ Eve, when the veils are at their thinnest. Near the ash trees, two Ritual of Renewals were taking place. The witches were left vulnerable as they were too immersed in the ritual and had not cast protective wards around the spell circle, deeming it unnecessary since the trees were already warded. Three witches were lost that night. A young couple – whose son was one of the babes being blessed – and your grandfather.”

Hermione gasped, the first sound she’d made since Nana began the tale.

“He fought off the fae and managed to take his wand, expel the creature back to the faelands, and close the breach in the wards. Sadly, this great expenditure of magic was too much for him, and he died soon after,” Nana explained.

She took a deep fortifying breath and carried on. “His magic passed to his heir, who was not yet one year old, immediately after his death. That had never happened before, and your parents and I were greatly concerned about what that amount of matured power would do to your developing core. Thankfully, as the years went by and you grew, no consequences presented themselves. We hope this continues until you are of age and have fully matured. This is why you must not tell your parents I told you all this. No doubt your mother will one day tell you a sugar-coated, shorter version of this tale. Not many are even aware that there is more to the history of witches than what Beedle the Bard has written in his nursery book.”

Hermione nodded her head, a frown twisting her lips as she thought how unfair it was that Mama had planned to keep something like this from her. Thank goodness she had Nana!

Her eyes alighted once again on the pale wand, still clutched between her grandmother’s fingers.

“Is that the wand Grandfather won, Nana?”

“Yes, darling. This is the rightful wand of the fae prince – the fae who attacked us. Originally made of yew wood and later infused with bone fragments of his mortal father, dipped in the silver blood of a unicorn and allegedly blessed by a phoenix bird. It used to belong to his ancestor, Salazar Slytherin.”

“The bad Knight?!”

Nana nodded, her lips pinched in displeasure at the very thought.

“What a horrid family they must be. And he’s a prince? Princes are not supposed to attack people, that’s so—so unprincely!” Hermione huffed and crossed her arms in indignation.

Nana chuckled, although it was more humorless than amused. “I quite agree, love.”

Hermione cocked her head in thought. “What about the king? Is he also evil?”

There was a pause before Nana said gently, “The fae prince killed him.” She didn’t want to tell the young witch such horrid things, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie to her granddaughter.

Hermione gasped. “He killed his father?”

Nana shook her head. “His uncle was king because his father was not fae. The fae prince killed King Morfin – son of Marvolo – in order to inherit the throne.”

Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste. “Why couldn’t he just wait? He was a prince, he would have been king soon!” Hermione was desperate for answers, none of this made sense to her. How could someone kill their father – or rather, their uncle!

Nana shook her head again. “Fae live for centuries and Morfin had barely begun his rule. The fae prince grew impatient, because he knew he would have to wait a long time before he became king.”

“Then why is he still just a prince?”

“He is not yet of fae age to be crowned king, but he rules nonetheless, because he is the last of his blood.”

Hermione turned that over in her head. This was a fairy tale story if ever she’d heard one. But it was one of those dark fairytales, with dragons that won and princes that turned out to be bad. However, there was still one tiny piece missing…

“Nana, you’ve told me about Gellert and Salazar and Marvolo and Morfin, but you didn’t say the fae prince’s name. Why?”

Nana’s browns eyes, so much like Hermione’s, took on a pained look. “It is forbidden. There is a powerful taboo on it. The fae prince detests his given name because it was the name of his mortal father and the new name he fashioned for himself is dreadful and I refuse to use it,” she sneered with vehemence.

Hermione touched the woman’s arm lightly and looked up at her with wide eyes. “Then what do we call him?”

Nana sighed. “I suppose if you must, you can say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Hermione mouthed the words to herself and giggled. “That’s silly.”

Nana smiled and tapped Hermione’s nose, countenance finally brightening. “I know, my sweet.”

Hermione’s hand drifted down from its place on Nana’s arm until her fingers were just a breath away from touching the wand. There was something about the wand that called to her, like a siren’s song to a lonely sailor.

“Nana,” she began slowly, eyes fixed on the paleness of the wood. “May I touch it?”

Nana was looking down at her with a strange look in her eyes, one Hermione was sure she hadn’t learned the word to identify yet.

The old and young Granger held each other’s eyes for an unidentifiable time, until Nana gave the tiniest nod of her head.

Hermione’s heart leaped as her small fingers closed around the slim piece of wood and held it in front of her face. Something shifted in her. Shifted and slotted itself into its proper place, she could feel it.

This wand – it felt like _hers_.

(Somewhere, in a land not so far away, separated only by a long line of ash trees and protective wards, a fae prince lifted his raven head and fixed his dark eyes beyond the tree line.

 _I found you._ ) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you so much for the amazing comments. I'm ecstatic over the response a measly 3000 words inspired. Hope you enjoy this chapter, too!

* * *

**my heart lingers in your hands**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

  _You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed._

_—Antoine de Saint-Exupery_

* * *

Hermione was restless; she couldn’t sleep. It was well past her bedtime and even Mama and Papa were asleep in their bed. (She’d checked.)

Her eyes kept flitting to the window and the long line of shadows beyond. The ash trees.

Could those be the very same trees in Nana’s story? Could that be where she lost her grandpa, where Harry lost his parents?

Her heart beat erratically in her chest at the thought. She thought about the fae prince’s wand and how it had felt in her hand: _right_.

Her fingers twitched against her lavender (because pink was for little girls and she was big now) sheets. Oh, how she wished to feel it in her hand again, the smooth wood catching on the lines of her palm, the slightly curved handle bumping against her wrist.

Her hands fisted. Hermione knew where the wand was kept, and Nana was sleeping. She could just go down to the shed and feel it for a few minutes, no one would have to know.

Hermione shook her head vehemently. No no, she couldn’t, she wasn’t a bad girl. 

No one would know.

No…

No one—

Hermione swung her legs down. Her feet were moving over her dark brown floors before she’d finished the thought.

Her hand grasped the cool, silver doorknob and stayed still. She shouldn’t do this, she should get back into bed and close her eyes and count sheep and—

She turned her wrist.

* * *

The trek to the shed had been cold. She’d forgotten a jacket so the only thing protecting her from the elements was a thin, cotton sleeping shirt with pandas on it. The imagery fur of the pandas did nothing for the wind making goosebumps appear on her arms.

The shed door was unlocked, like always. The room was dark but for a sliver of moonlight streaming through the only window. It was enough.

Hermione dragged the chair she’d sat on only that afternoon under the shelf opposite the door. She climbed on and stood on her tip toes, hand outstretched and feeling around blindly.

There was the cauldron, so the case was more to the left, yes – no, that was the gas lamp, okay more to the right and yes, there!

Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she tried to unhook the catch on the glass case. It wasn’t heavy at all, perhaps Nana had put a charm on it.

Thinking about Nana reminded her that she _should not_ be doing this, and her cheeks grew warm.

_Click._

Too late now.

Hermione set the case down and lifted the wand out with both hands. A rush of _something_ jolted through her from her fingertips to the tips of her toes.

She swished the wand and giggled when it gave off the faintest blue sparks.

She’d ask for the wand for her next birthday. Surely Nana would give it to her. It wasn’t like anyone else was using it. She nodded to herself. Yes, that’s what she’d do, she’d—

_Come to me._

Hermione whirled around, eyes frantically searching for whoever had spoken. There was no one there.

“Hello?” her voice was small and wobbly.

_Come to me._

“Nana?” Hermione called out, desperate, scared.

_Come to me, little Granger._

Hermione’s gasp broke on the beginnings of a sob. She was standing so still she could have been mistaken for a wax sculpture. The wand buzzed in her hand.

_Now!_

Startled and absolutely terrified, Hermione sprang into action. She hurtled through the shed door and made a mad dash for the house, her only thought on getting inside and curling up between her parents and apologizing to Nana and never, ever going to the shed alone.

She was almost to the back door when the voice came again, and it didn’t come alone. A fog descended on her mind. _Wrong way, little one. Come to me, to the trees._

Hermione stopped running immediately and turned. The voice was so beautiful, so calming. She should listen. Her feet moved forward and her body followed.

 _Yes, bring it to me_ , the beautiful voice lulled. _Bring me Basilisk._

Hermione’s brows furrowed. Basilisk?

 _The wand, brat_ , the voice snapped impatiently.

The fog lifted slightly. Hermione’s pace stuttered to a stop. What was she doing, why was she following such a rude voice?

 _Apologies_ , the voice crooned, _I didn’t mean that. Darling child, bring me the wand and you can go back to bed._

Back to bed, yes, she was feeling sleepy. She should listen, then she could go back to bed. Eyes glazed and thoughts complacent, Hermione lifted her feet and started walking again.

The trees were in sight. She was almost there. She could go back to bed, soon. Curl up under her warm covers and sleep.

A shout came from behind her, or was it the wind?

The voice came again, rushed, _Quickly!_

She started running, a stone caught under her sole and dug into her feet with every step, but she was forced to ignore it. She was so close. Her hair brushed low hanging branches and then – she was in.

The fog lifted immediately and Hermione was left to take in her surroundings, body trembling, heart racing, feet sore.

Her eyes adjusted to the new darkness. It was a clearing, empty and lit sparsely by what little moonlight could get through the tall trees.

Why had she come here?

A shadow stepped away from its place against a tree. As it stepped towards her, its outline became clearer. It was a boy who looked barely older than her.

He was beautiful. A head of thick dark hair partially covered two black stubs growing out the top of his forehead and his sharp cheekbones fit his youthful face perfectly.

“Hello, brat,” he greeted.

Hermione stumbled back and landed roughly on the ground. That voice! It was the one that led her here.

Her breaths puffed out in sporadic bursts. Her heart was thumping so loudly she was sure the boy could hear it.

He crouched in front of her, lips curled to the side in a sinister smirk, and held his hand out. “Give it,” he demanded.

Hermione stared at the pale, pale hand in confusion. Give what?

The hand shot forward and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. There was no pain, only a tugging on the fingers that clutched the wand. The wand, she realised.

Hermione looked down at her hand, looked down at the pale wand and the pale hand that was trying to pull it away from her.

She panicked. “No!”

The boy stilled, lifted his head. “No?” he echoed incredulously.

Hermione gulped. This was what he wanted? Well, he couldn’t have it. Her grandfather had died for this wand, it was _hers_.

“No,” she repeated with more resolve, clenching her fingers tighter and pulling herself away from him.

“No?” he growled, dark eyes narrowing into near slits.

 “Y-you can’t have it,” she said, a tremor in her voice.

A sneer made its way onto his beautiful face. “And why not?”

“It’s,” she began only to choke back a sob. “It’s mine.”

His eyes widened and his cheeks tinted a dark, angry red. “I assure you, _brat_ , it most certainly is not,” he snapped at her, teeth clacking together. He made to take it again and her magic responded.

First it swirled inside her, just under her sternum, then it rushed through her like a whirlwind and when it manifested outside of her body, it sent the boy skidding across the dirt and ten feet away from her. 

She stared in shock at the tracks he’d left as he was pushed away by an invisible force.

She’d…she’d never done something like that before. There had been a mean little boy at school who’d grabbed her hair and pulled so hard he yanked some strands out, and her magic had given him a severe stomachache. But this – pushing away a being that was clearly magical so far without touching them and without an incantation – was not something she’d hoped to achieve for many years yet.

The boy got to his feet with a load snarl, beautiful face transformed into that of a creature’s. He bent his legs and Hermione detachedly watched him as he clearly prepared to lunge at her. The fog came back and she felt odd, like there was no need to move away.

The boy leaped, nails extended into deadly talons. The sharp points were a breath away from her throat when a boom rocked through the air and threw him off course. His talons missed her throat, but they slid right through her thin, cotton t-shirt and the vulnerable flesh over her heart.

Hermione _screamed_.

* * *

The pain was like nothing she’d experienced before. The broken arm she’d had when she’d jumped off the diving board and hit cement instead of water couldn’t even begin to compare to the way every inch of her cried out in agony.

She tried to bring her arms up to clutch at the pain, but they felt too heavy and would not respond. Tears leaked from her eyes in a constant stream, her nose ran and mingled with the salty downpour and dripped into her mouth and she did not _care_.

There was movement above her. Blearily, she gazed up at familiar brown eyes.

“Hermione! Oh, my child, my sweet child. It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be fine.”

“N-nana,” Hermione tried to croak out, but the word caught in her clogged throat.

“Shh, shh, don’t speak. You’re going to be fine.” Hands fluttered gently over her chest and the pain lessened an inch.

Tears that were not her own dripped onto Hermione’s face. The brown in Nana’s eyes were dulled by the water pooling in them.

Leaves crunched off to the side. Hermione slanted her eyes as much as she could, only to see the boy rise to his feet gracefully and dust his tunic.

His hands made their way into pockets and he adopted a casual stance. Hermione hated it.

“Well, I was aiming for her throat, but I guess now you can say your goodbyes,” he said nonchalantly.

Nana’s body was draped over Hermione’s in the next second. “You monster!” she shouted, voice full of loathing and anger.

The boy cocked his head. “Come now, crone, you can do better than calling me out on what I am.”

“How?” Nana screamed. How did you find her, went unasked.

Don’t cry, Nana, Hermione wanted to say but her voice wasn’t working and her heart still hurt and oh god was she going to die?

“Blood of my blood,” he sneered. “My wand will forever know the touch of a Granger, thanks to your husband.”

Nana reared back and brought a hand up to her mouth to contain her gasp.

“Ah, I see you’ve figured it out. Your wards might be able to keep my physical body away but I’m much too powerful to be completely hindered. And what a shame your heir hasn’t learned to ward herself against mental attacks yet.”

“Why her? Why not me? I was there that day, too!” Nana cried, clutching one of Hermione’s hands so hard the young witch would have cried out if she hadn’t been too focused on other hurts.

The boy smiled condescendingly. “You might be a Granger, but she is a direct descendent and you know how finicky the duel rules are: to reclaim a wand, defeat the holder or the heir and such.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Nana looked back at Hermione’s ashen face and stroked her cheek with a trembling finger.

“I should have never—this is all my fault…”

“Yes, yes, you should have never brought your precious heir anywhere near Basilisk. Now, hand over my wand and you can be on your way,” he demanded impatiently, taking a step toward them.

Even through all the pain, Hermione heard his words and flexed her fingers to check that she still had the wand in her grip. She would have breathed a sigh of relief if her lungs weren’t on fire.

Seeing the protective movement, Nana placed a comforting hand over the one that held Basilisk. “You’ll never have the wand if she dies, Voldemort.”

The boy – Voldemort – flinched as if struck when Nana said his name, but he recovered quickly, face like a storm. “I sincerely doubt that, crone,” he jeered.

“She has bonded with it, I’ve felt it,” Nana informed quietly, pressing a hand lightly over her granddaughter’s chest. Hermione’s wound was bleeding sluggishly now, the flow having been slowed by one of Nana’s charms, but that did nothing for the heart wrenching pain she still felt.

Voldemort’s face took on a look of utter disgust. “Of all the witches to…” he trailed off. After a moment’s consideration, Voldemort smoothed his tunic and gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve gone this long without a wand, I’m sure I can manage until the next heir. Besides, her death will be worth it. That’ll be two Grangers now, and both in less than a decade. Happy deaths.” He saluted mockingly, sneer still in place.

He made to turn and walk away when Nana called out to him, “Wait!”

He stopped but did not turn.

“This is your doing, you can reverse it.” There was a note of desperation in the woman’s voice.

Voldemort fixed Nana with a smile full of mockery. “Why ever would I do that?”

Nana took a deep breath. “Save her heart—save her heart…and it’s yours.” She sounded so sad. Why? Didn’t she want Hermione to be saved? And her heart, it hurt so much, Hermione would give it away without a second thought if only it would take this horrible feeling with it.

“You would give up your heir so easily? What if I decide I want to kill her, after all?” His brows were drawn together in puzzlement.

“Fae don’t damage their possessions.” Nana cringed as the words left her mouth.

“Oh, but I’m only half fae,” he smiled wide, showing blunt teeth, showing that part of him that was human. “And you would be surprised how much the mortal part of me enjoys destruction.”

“You will honour this. You will save her,” Nana said in the firm voice Hermione recognized as her grandmother voice. 

Voldemort’s nostrils flared. “Will I?” he challenged.

“Or you won’t get Basilisk back. Ever. The wand has bonded with her and it will follow her into death.”

Voldemort loosed a loud snarl that made Hermione’s weakening heart thumb once in fear. He stood stock still as he thought the crone’s words over. He knew she was telling the truth, he’d learned the history of wands from his uncle. He knew, as all fae and witch did, that once a wand bonded with a magical being, it either needed to be claimed by another through a duel, or given willingly, otherwise the wand’s powers would dissipate when its bondmate died.

Voldemort didn’t _need_ the wand, he was the most powerful fae since Gellert himself. But the wand had absorbed magic from a long line of fae and even some witches over the centuries, and he could only imagine how powerful he’d be when he possessed it. He could _not_ let such a powerful and useful artefact be lost just because of a little girl.

He waved his hand and golden light shot forth from his fingers and dissolved into Hermione’s chest. The pain ebbed away instantly. She felt an itch over her heart and her skin began knitting itself back together. Nana sighed in relief and pressed a damp kiss to Hermione’s temple.

Another wave of Voldemort’s hand had Hermione levitating through the air toward him.

“Nana!” Hermione cried out, finally able to use her voice.

“You can’t take her now,” Nana protested, frantic.

Hermione hovered in the air between the fae and the witch. “When?”

“When she’s of age.”

“And when is that?” He was growing impatient, both Nana and Hermione could hear it in the rising octave of his beautiful voice.

“Ten years.”

“Ten human years,” Voldemort clarified, narrowing his eyes as if to suss out any schemes the witch was planning.

Nana nodded her head stiffly, fighting the urge to grab Hermione and make a run for it.

Voldemort considered this before snorting. “A measly about of time. Take her,” he dismissed.

Nana released a stuttering breath. She ran to Hermione, clutched the girl to her chest and started toward the tree line.

Voldemort’s voice stopped her, “She is not to be touched until then.” His voice was firm, his demand unnegotiable. Nana’s shoulder hunched towards her ears as she tensed. She pursed her lips but did not respond.

Just before they broke through the tree line, Voldemort’s parting words were for Hermione’s ears only, “Goodbye, brat. For now.”

* * *

She’d been playing outside, being sure to never stray more than a few feet away from the house, when she saw him.

“Nana!” Hermione shouted, instantly fearful that he had come to take her away, come to collect the price he’d been promised for saving her heart.

Nana rushed out of the kitchen door, hands caked in flour and greying hair falling out of its bun. When she saw what had frightened her granddaughter so, she pushed the young witch behind her and created a physical barrier between the fae prince and Hermione.

The fae prince calmly weaved through the low hanging branches, surrounded by figures in dark clothing and masks depicting tortured animal faces.

The fae prince stepped forward out of the copse of trees he had claim over, arms laden with jewels and cloths of vibrant colours – colours that matched his robes and the circlet he wore in his raven tresses, a large, glittering emerald positioned between his small black horns.

 “Nana, what is he doing?” Hermione asked fearfully, clutching the skirts of her grandmother’s dress. Hermione’s small fingers twitched with the desire to snatch those jewels away and clutch them to her chest.

(She looked at her hands in horror. What was this feeling? Why was she thinking such thoughts? What was wrong with her?!)

“He’s courting you,” Nana said in a strangled voice.

Voldemort laid the treasures where the wards began – where he could not cross – and left without a word. The tall men in horrific masks silently followed after him.

Hermione was forbidden to play outside for the rest of the summer. But the gifts still found their way on her window sill. She never told Nana or her parents or any of her friends about them, scared that the adults would take her things away. Because that’s what they were, hers – and they would remain so.

Hermione knew that these types of thoughts were accompanied by a frisson of that wretched fog, so she hid the treasures under a floorboard and pulled her bright rug over it.

Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she would pass her fingers over the trinkets and wonder how beautiful the faelands must be if they could produce such wondrous treasures.

Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she thought about asking the fae prince to take her there.

* * *

Fae are stranger creatures, they latch onto things so quickly.

And no matter how he loathed to be compared to the simple, plebian fae that he ruled over, the fae prince cannot escape what he is. Specifically, he cannot escape his fascination with this splendent slip of a girl that literally has a piece of him inside her.

When he saved the young Granger’s heart, he could only reverse the damage his talons had dealt by binding her waning life force to his immortal one. That kind of magic leaves a mark. And for one as powerful as the fae prince, the mark left behind took the form of a soul bond.

He’d captured a centaur afterward, to tell him of his future now that there was this new development. He hadn’t cared for the answer and, in a fit of rage, had severed the insolent centaur’s head from the rest of his body.

Tom did not at all need any type of distraction, not when he’d barely cemented his place as the first ever crown-less ruler of the fae. He did not at all need a _soulmate_ to balance him. He certainly did not at all need to wait ten years – human years it might have been, but it was still more time than he’d ever have liked to wait – to reclaim Basilisk, which was rightfully his.

At first, he started watching the young witch so that he could learn her weaknesses and devise a plan to incapacitate her without killing her in the future.

Then he started leaving her little gifts because there was this very annoying voice in his head that sighed in dejection over the lack of finery his soulmate had. The fae prince could not fathom why the young witch was so content in her life when she had nary a jewel and kept wearing the same clothes every few days. Was she poor, or just tasteless?

But after the crone died, and he was left speechless for hours as the power transfer took place, Tom could not restrain himself from approaching her anymore. The biggest obstacle in his path had just been buried and he soon found that the wards around the ash trees could be overpowered by the new magic he shared with his soulmate.

He’d gone to her window in the form he’d assumed when they’d met in the clearing.

He’d wanted to say more, stay longer, but the little chit had been deathly scared of him, even going so far as to hide under her covers. He’d left with an ache in his chest that had been harder to ignore than he would ever admit.

He realised after that encounter that sometime during his two years of vigil she’d become the singular most important speck of anything in his life.

He had no intention of ever telling her that, though.

(And therein lied the problem, unbeknownst to him.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for the lovely comments! They truly are what made me decide to expand this story and I know they will be what keeps the creative juices flowing.  
> This is a bit of a filler chapter, but things really pick up in the following chapters. Enjoy!

* * *

**my heart lingers in your hands**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

_If ignorance is bliss, I must be ecstatic._

_—tumblr_

* * *

The creature had a red snarl when it came to her door.

(It had been almost six years since she last saw it. The last time being the night of Nana’s burial, when she had turned nine.)

Hermione did not notice the creature at first, too preoccupied with thoughts of the events that led to her current emotional conflict.

(The act was all slips and slides against sweat-slicked skin and heated kisses from the moment the first article of clothing hit the floor. Hermione clutched broad shoulders as an insistent mouth clamped around her nipple and suckled greedily. Her moans were forthcoming with no indication to stop.

His large hands grabbed her legs and split her thighs apart to reveal her center. A finger stroked her, and the male chest above her rumbled in appreciation at her wetness. A second finger joined the first and they both groaned as his digits sank into her most secret of places easily.

“Hermown-ninny,” Viktor growled into her ear. She clamped around his fingers in response.)

She liked Viktor, she truly did. He was kind and clever and broad and handsome and understanding and—

(Viktor collapsed next to her, harsh panting breaths tumbling from his lips.

Hermione lay still. She’d come – she could feel the evidence running down the inside of her thighs, mixed with Viktor’s own release – so why did she still feel so empty and dissatisfied?)

—and totally all wrong.

She paced around her room, hand tugging harshly on a curl as she chewed her lower lip.

“Brat.” The voice came from behind her door. Cold, angry, and inspiring instant dread in the brunette’s heart.

Hermione stopped pacing and stared at the brown piece of wood that was the only thing keeping her safe from whatever was on the other side. (She knew very well what that was, she would never be able to forget his voice, whether it be a beautiful baritone or a gravelly rasp.)

She stumbled back and fell to the floor in her haste to get away from the creature.

“You have defiled yourself,” it snarled. The voice was nearer, as if he were pressed right up against the door as he spoke.

Hermione’s breaths came out in erratic puffs, her heart pounded so hard in her chest she was sure a rib would break before this encounter was over.

There was a shimmering in the air and then the creature was standing in her room, having walked through the door as if it weren’t even there. Her muscles spasmed with the need to get away even as her limps were frozen in place.

“Well, brat, what do you have to say for yourself?” he snapped, baring teeth that had sharpened since the last time she’d seen them.

(He was just as beautiful as she remembered. Older, and perhaps sharper, but still of unearthly beauty.)

He growled as he stepped closer to her fallen figure. He crouched in front of her like that night in the clearing. And Hermione instinctively closed her eyes against the pain she knew was coming next.

Instead, there was a tingle on her face and she cracked one eye open to see that Voldemort had his pale hand resting on her cheek. Almost affectionately. Her stomach churned at the thought.

Adrenalin overcame her frozen limbs, and Hermione thrust a hand out to shove him away from her. Her hand went through him like he was just a hallucination.

“Tsk, tsk, little witch. You should have more faith in your grandfather’s wards. They still retain their pesky purpose of limiting my influence beyond the ash trees.” His mouth moved and words came out, but Hermione could only focus on the phantom hand at her face and the fear in her veins.

“Answer me, _brat_ ,” he bit out the word, intending to hurt her, humiliate her. Just as she had done to him. “Who was he?”

She finally found her voice. “W-what?”

“The boy who took you, who you allowed to soil you.” His teeth ground together, creating a grating sound that put her teeth on edge.

Hermione stared. _This_ was why he was here? To gauge the identity of the one who had taken her virginity? Hermione would have laughed if she weren’t terrified of what the creature would do to Viktor if he found out.

“N-no one,” she stuttered out, unconvincingly.

“Really?” he sneered, beautiful face transformed into that of a predator’s.

Suddenly there was anger and it bolstered her confidence. “My body is my own. What I do with it is my business, who I allow to touch me is my business!”

Voldemort’s snarl grew and only then, faces inches apart and breaths ghosting over each other, did Hermione notice the dark, red stain over his mouth.

“What is that?” she asked, eyes wide.

Voldemort startled. “Nothing.” His denial was fast.

“Did you kill someone!” her voice was a shriek. She faintly heard footsteps outside her room but paid them no mind.

His intense gaze softened, and his guarded eyes made him harder to read. “That is none of your concern.”

“None of my concern? You come to my door with blood on you and demand to know who I’d given myself to, and you have the audacity to say that the identity of your victim is none of my concern.” Anger and rage, loathing and hate, that was all Hermione felt as she rose to her feet to tower over the creature.

Her breathing was labored as her mind raced a mile a minute. “Was it my parents?” she asked, fearing the answer.

She was given none.

Sparks flew through her brown mane. “Was it my parents!”

“No.” The reply was soft in the face of her raging storm, but that one syllable gave way to instantaneous relief.

Exhausted, she turned away from him. “Go away,” she mumbled, too drained to raise her voice.

In her peripheral vision she saw him reaching for her and prepared to use the last of her energy to distance herself when a flash of light hit his back.

Hermione and Voldemort simultaneously turned to the source.

Luna stood in the doorway, finger pointed at the creature, eyes hard and mouth a firm line. “Begone,” she intoned. “You are not welcome here, fae prince.”

Voldemort growled and Luna raised her finger higher; a threat, a promise.

With one last look at Hermione, Voldemort disappeared.

She didn’t see him again until years later, but she knew he was always there. And sometimes when she looked behind her, there was a shadow not her own following her footsteps.

She never touched another man after Viktor.

* * *

The first time Hermione met Luna, it didn’t at all go the way she’d expected to meet another witch.

It went like this:

“You’re a witch,” the words were said in a melodic, excited voice.

Hermione tensed immediately but forced herself to relax, knowing that it was improbable that she was the one being addressed. Nonetheless, her curiosity got the better of her and she turned slightly to see the person who’d spoken. A pretty blue-eyed blonde stood directly behind her, wearing the most color blinding tie-dyed dress with actual baby turnips sewed onto it.

“Hi, I’m Luna.” The girl stuck out her hand.

Hermione blinked. She took the hand and shook it warily. “Hi.”

“You’re bonded, right? Usually, the bonds aren’t so obvious but yours is like fireworks at night.”

Hermione blinked again. “What.”

“Oh? Did you not know? I thought since you were a witch…” she trailed off and Hermione’s eyes widened in realization that this girl had, in fact, been talking to her.

“Who are you?” Hermione demanded. Her status was not something she’d planned on revealing to anyone. No matter how many centuries passed, it would always be dangerous for a witch to become exposed.

“I’m Luna,” Luna replied simply, looking at Hermione like she’d asked something silly.

Hermione leaned closer and lowered her voice. “How do you know I’m a witch? Did _he_ send you?” she asked urgently.

Luna blinked owlishly. “I’m a Whisperer, we see things not even magical beings can. And the golden aura around you let me know you’re a witch. As for who sent me, well, I guess it was a _he_ , but I don’t think my father is who you mean.” Her tone was light and airy as she spoke, as if her words were of no particular consequence.

Hermione’s eyes grew wide in surprise. A Whisperer was a witch with the unique talent of being able to communicate with magical creatures, Nana had told Hermione, they were almost as rare as seers. To actually meet one…

Hermione sighed and ran a hand through her unruly curls. “I apologize for being so rude. I’m just—just, wary, I guess.”

Luna smiled brightly and grasped one of Hermione’s hands. “I understand. I’d be worried too if I was bonded to a fae.”

Hermione reared back, tearing her hand away from Luna’s. Her fingers splayed protectively over her hip where she kept Basilisk hidden. “How do you know that?”

Luna cocked her head to the side, blonde hair falling over one shoulder and catching the midday sunlight. “You don’t have any nargles around you and that only happens when nargles are very scared or when there is magic that repels them. You’re not at all a scary witch so it must be the remains of fae magic that once touched you – fae magic doesn’t care very much for nargles, you see.”

The brunette gaped. “You can tell all that just because there aren’t any, uh, nargles around?”

Luna nodded, bright smile in place. “I know a lot of things,” she chimed happily.

Hermione couldn’t control the smile that twitched her lips upward. “I’m sure you do.” This girl was like a ball of sunshine. She seemed odd at first, and perhaps she truly was in comparison to someone as down-to-earth and organized as Hermione, but there was this air around her that made it impossible to find her unappealing. Hermione wondered if it was some kind of magic or just Luna herself.

Unbeknownst to her – but predicted by Luna, if one were to ask the blonde – that was the start of a friendship of a lifetime.

* * *

 A year since the fae prince appeared at her door, Luna came to her room, the bearer of the worst news possible.

“He’s been crowned king, you know.”

Hermione looked at Luna with a confused frown. “Who?”

The blonde’s eyes were the clearest she’d ever seen when she said, “Voldemort.”

( _I’m coming for you_ , her dream had said. But perhaps it hadn’t been a dream.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine some of you might have questions...? If so, you can ask me on tumblr (born-as-a-nebulae) or ask in the comments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the phenomenal support and comments! I haven't replied to all the comments because I don't want to be a bother...? But I've decided I have to show my appreciation. If anyone has a problem with my replies, please do let me know - I don't want to annoy you away.  
> Anyway, things get hectic in this one. Enjoy!

* * *

**my heart lingers in your hands**

**Chapter 4**  

* * *

  _The touch was soft, but the hand was dangerous._

_—tumblr_

* * *

The creature had ebony wings when she walked into her room and saw it standing at the foot of her bed.

Its wings were beautiful, all pitch black and downy feathers with sharp points on either end. They were more befitting of an angel than the devil she knew the creature to be.

(Perhaps it was another part of its allure, another part of the elaborate trap that is the creature itself.)

This form of his had to be the most breathtaking she’d seen. As she looked at its otherworldly face, she thought about Lavender. Her promiscuous honey blonde friend would have melted into a puddle at the very sight of those high cheekbones and dark, dark eyes and that mouthwatering lean physique.

“Brat,” he greeted, much warmer than any of the previous times they’d faced each other. (Not like Hermione had cared for those encounters so what did his new-found politeness matter?)

Hermione rolled her eyes and brushed past him to her desk. She’d been expecting a visit soon, but she was peeved to see that he was still every bit as annoying as he had always been. Fae were such stagnant creatures.

“It’s been ten years, I’d think you knew my name by now.” She dropped her bag and picked up her brush to keep her hands busy. She could feel the trembles starting to take hold of her but damn if she was going to cower and hide like the little girl she’d been at nine.

“I have always known your name, I just haven’t seen the need to use it.” (There was that warmth again. Did he have a fever or something? Could fae be affected by mortal sicknesses?)

The brunette rolled her eyes again but didn’t reply. He seemed to be awaiting an answer, but she was content to let the silence ensue.

Finally: “You know why I am here.”

Hermione’s hand stopped mid stroke. She swallowed, inhaled deeply, and continued running the brush through her curls. Stroke. “Uh, yeah,” she said condescendingly. Stroke. “I’ve known since that night in the clearing. Not to mention your grating voice in my dreams didn’t really give me a chance to forget – thanks for those, by the way.” Stroke. Keep calm, you can get through this.

Voldemort loosed a breath that grazed her turned back. Hermione suppressed shivers of an unwanted kind. “Your grandmother made a bargain. I have waited ten years and now I am here to collect.”

Hermione faced him in a flurry of wild hair and ice daggers. “Listen Voldemort,” she began, a hand pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Tom,” he interjected quickly.

The brunette narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“My name, it’s Tom.” His face was carefully blank, guarded and, dare she name it, _unsure_.

“Tom,” She said slowly, unaware of the shudder that went through him at the sound of his name on her lips. “Like your mortal father.”

He flinched and Hermione had to suppress a smile. Being friends with a Whisperer had its many perks, learning carefully hidden truths relayed by passing nargles and wrackspurts were only one of those perks.

Voldem— _Tom_ scowled. “My father is dead.”

“So it’s okay to claim the name you’ve avoided for years?”

His scowl deepened. “I am Voldemort to my court and enemies. My bride should refer to me more…intimately.”

Nostrils flaring and temper rising, Hermione stalked towards him. “I am no bride of yours,” Hermione seethed, jamming a finger into his chest in the heat of the moment. She gasped when her hand did _not_ immediately pass through him.

“Not yet,” he said with a smirk, showing amusement at the terror that now coursed in her veins, whereas his chest ached that his mere physical presence had caused such a visceral reaction in her.

“You’re corporeal,” she spoke through gasps.

“Yes,” he replied, curt, irked. He needed to curb this irrational fear of him out of her.

“But—the wards, and the barriers and— _how_?” Hermione’s heart no longer resided in her ribcage, the organ had promptly dropped to the bottom of her stomach and remained there as stomach acids ate away at its outer wall.

“I’m king now, darling,” he responded, taking her trembling hand in his own. His eyes flashed as his grip tightened. “And nothing in this world can keep me from you.”

_Crack!_

A single feather floated down and rested where their feet had been a second earlier. 

* * *

She had been in the faelands for weeks, imprisoned in a lavish chamber and denied every time she requested to be let out.

Voldemort – _Tom_ – visited her every day at least once. He’d bring lunch if he imposed on her around midday, or he’d come into her room, without permission, and sit in the high backed chair and attempt to make conversation with her.

There were only so many excuses Hermione could concoct while stuck between four walls before she ran out of plausible things and resorted to blunt rejections (and he didn’t seem to take those well). 

He also brought bright jewelry set with rare stones. They lay collected on the dressing table, untouched. These were much more extravagant, but she’d rather have the treasures that still lay hidden under her floorboard at her parents’ home.

During the many days she’d been stuck there, her only consolation was the sight of the sprawling gardens under her window. She’d gaze out and focus on all the different exotic flowers when he visited, or sit on the sill as she read.

There was always bustling about, fae running around pruning and collecting and arranging the flowers into elaborate vases.

They were preparing for something, that much she could tell, but she did not yet know what the occasion was.

She’d asked the fae that attended her, but they would not answer. One bold fae with shining purple hair had suggested Hermione ask the fae king.

Hermione stood with her decision to not interact with him for all of one day before she gave in.

* * *

“Why am I here?” Hermione exploded as soon as the doors had closed behind him.

Tom gazed at her steadily, taking in the long, rose blush dress she wore and smiling slightly at the gardenias Narcissa had weaved into her hair. She was lovely to behold, and she did not even know it.

He walked to the small table and poured himself a glass of wine before taking a seat in his customary chair.

“I assumed you knew why your presence is required in my lands,” he said, raising the glass in her direction.

“Don’t be vague!” Hermione snapped. “All I know is that you are collecting on my grandmother’s bargain. I have no idea what that entails.”

That brought Tom’s dark eyebrows together. “The crone never told you?” he asked, tone incredulous.

Teeth grinding together, the witch bit out, “Told me what?”

He ignored her question. “The bargain, what do you know of it?”

“I know that you saved me – after you shredded my heart, that is – and that my Nana promised you Basilisk.”

Raven tresses brushed his forehead as he shook his head. “No, that’s not it at all. Basilisk was my goal, but the crone promised me something much greater than my wand if I were to save her heir.”

Hermione’s heart thundered. She did not like where this was going. “What?” she asked, fearing the answer she suspected.

Eyes as intense as liquid fire and pointed right at her, “You.” 

Her heart plummeted for the umpteenth time in his presence. “Me?”

Tom stood and put his empty glass down. “You were there that night. How can you not remember?” He was no longer looking at her, but his question hit Hermione with the full force of his gaze.

“I was barely lucid and only seven. I had no idea what was going on except that I was in agony and a monster stood no less than five feet away from me!”

His shoulders hunched and his voice quietened. “A monster…is that truly what I am to you?”

“You kidnapped me!”

“I took what was rightfully mine!” he shouted, facing her.

Anger and frustration clouded Hermione’s vision as she stormed to the dressing table and pulled the top drawer open, rooting around inside until her hand clutched around what she was looking for.

She threw Basilisk at the fae king and he caught it in one hand. “There! I willingly give you back your ancestor’s wand, so mote it be.” A flash of light extended from the wand and latched onto Tom’s right hand, transferring ownership.

As the full effect of her actions caught up to her, Hermione’s whole body slumped in loss. “You have what you were after. Please, let me go.”

Tom stood in silence as he relished in the feel of Basilisk in his hand for the first time since the night of the Ritual of Renewal seventeen years ago when his soulmate’s grandfather had stolen it form him in a duel.

Hermione watched him close his eyes and soak in the feeling of the wand. Her lips parted unconsciously and her throat felt dry. How could someone so beautiful be responsible for such horrid things?

“This was unnecessary,” he said softly, eyes still closed. “I had accepted that Basilisk would remain yours.”

“Well now you have it back.” Hermione turned her head away. She’d grown to care for the wand as if it were a sentient being, and at times it seemed like it was. Although she had no need for a wand, Basilisk had been with her for the past ten years and to not have it anymore…

No matter, if relinquishing her claim would earn her freedom, she was glad she had done it.

“Thank you for the wand, but I’m afraid I can’t let you go.”

Hermione’s head whipped back to him. “What?”

“When I took you from your room, I told you, you were to be my bride. That still stands; you are mine.”

Regret swam in Hermione’s gut as she realised she had given Basilisk up for nothing. Her panic spilled over her lips in a cry. “I DO NOT WANT TO BE YOUR ANYTHING!”

Hurt curled in Tom’s chest but he refused to show it. “Your personal feelings play no part in my decision. Like I said: you were promised to me and I am collecting.”

“I will kill you before I let that happen!” She screamed and her magic reacted, shoving him away.

He slid back a few steps but quickly regained his footing. “I doubt that.”

That only made Hermione push harder. She drew on her grandfather’s and Nana’s magic to aid her own in surpassing the power of the fae king. It was a bad time to not have Basilisk.

Hermione’s witchwind opened cuts in his exposed arms and face, still Tom persisted in his attempt to get closer to her.

In the blink of an eye, ropes shot out of Basilisk’s tip and restrained Hermione.

“I will drag you to the alter if I have to. You have no choice, _Hermione_.” He snarled, eyes flashing red with his malignant power, teeth clenched against the growls of possession trying to claw their way out of his throat, heart aching and aching and feeling as if he’d shred it with his own talons.

His emotions threatened to bubble over and that never proved to be a good thing for any fae, let alone the fae king. Before he could do something he’d later come to regret, he left.

As soon as the door closed the ropes fell away. With nothing to keep her restrained or supported, Hermione slid to the floor and let her sobs of anguish flow into her hands.

* * *

Trembling with the residue of his amalgamation of feelings, Tom barely made it outside Hermione’s door before his hold on his glamor dropped. His horns and wings sprung out, dark as obsidian and with wicked curves. The pressure on his magical core lessened and he breathed easier with his true form unconcealed.

He pressed his back against Hermione's door. He could hear her cries through the door. The pain in his chest grew. It had been festering from the moment she’d confronted him and now it was agonizing, robbing him of his breath. He had to get away from here – _her_.

“My Lord!” Malfoy shouted in alarm as he came upon his king leaning heavily against the witch’s door. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tom snapped, batting away his knight’s hands. “Inform the others, I wed in two days.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to protest, but Tom fixed him with a warning look.

The blonde gulped, “Yes, my Lord, right away.”

Tom watched dispassionately as Malfoy scampered away. He leaned his head back against the door and listened to his heart’s despair being echoed by the woman in the room.

* * *

Hermione slept through dinner and most of the next morning. Even when she woke she lay despondent in bed and wondered when her life had gone so wrong.

She hadn’t spoken to her parents or friends in three weeks and she had no way of knowing whether they were looking for her. How worried they must be. She hoped Luna had told them where she was, if anyone knew, it would be her Whisperer friend.

Since the day before, the bustling outside her window had increased to a frenzy but she didn’t have the energy to observe the change. 

A striking blonde fae by the name of Narcissa, who had been her main attendant during her stay, tried to cajole her out of bed. It was a futile attempt.

Hermione was one the verge of falling asleep when another fae came in to talk to Narcissa.

“Have you fitted her dress?”

“Not yet, Astoria.”

“We don’t have time, Mother. Draco is running around trying to make sure everything is in order and Lord King is nowhere to be seen. None of the knights can find him.”

“My son, your husband, will make sure everything is in place, and Lord King will return at his own time. But I’m afraid my Lady is out of sorts, more so than she has been since her arrival.”

Astoria’s voice grew quieter. “Do you reckon she knows the wedding has been moved up? I hear Lord King had to bring her here by force.”

“Hush, Astoria! Begone with you. Send in Pansy with the Lady’s meal.”

“Yes, Mother.” Astoria curtsied and left.

Narcissa shook her head and resumed setting out the peach and rose gold gown that Hermione wouldn’t wear.

“What did she mean?” Hermione croaked.

Narcissa startled. “My Lady, you’re awake!” She hurried to Hermione’s side and helped her sit up.

“What did she say, about the wedding?”

Narcissa cast her eyes downward and seemed reluctant to answer.

Hermione grasped the fae’s hands tightly. “Please. I’ve been denied so much, don’t refuse me this as well.”

“Lord King,” Narcissa began but then stopped. She looked to the door nervously.

Hermione waved her hand. The door locked and the room was silenced for extra measure. She turned back to Narcissa expectantly.

“Lord King had planned to wed you a month after your arrival, but—” Narcissa stopped and wrung her hands.

“Go on,” Hermione encouraged although she knew no further news would be good news.

“But he instructed the planning to be hastened; you are to be wed tomorrow.”

Dizziness overcame Hermione and she roughly fell back against the headboard.

“My Lady! Are you alright?” Narcissa’s delicate hands fluttered over the witch.

Hermione settled under the covers gracelessly, more exhausted than she had been when she’d fallen asleep. “I would like to be left alone.”

Narcissa frowned. “My Lady, I do not think that is wise.”

“Please,” Hermione said, the word a whispered plea on her lips.

The blonde’s frown became more pronounced, but she acquiesced. “As you wish.” She bowed and left the room.

Hermione stared up at the elaborated stitching on the canopy of the bed, unseeing, unfeeling.

When had her life gone so wrong? 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

**my heart lingers in your hands**

**Chapter 5**

* * *

  _I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort and disappointment and perseverance._

_—Vincent van Gogh_

* * *

Tom returned to his castle in a worse state than he’d left.

His riding clothes were torn, his boots muddy and missing a sole, his skin was as pale as dolomite and his hair stuck up in places, and he stank of a slaughterhouse.

The fae king was a frightful sight for his subjects who knew him to be immaculate and in full control of his inhibitions. Fae were wild creatures by nature, but this king stalking through the halls made servants cower against the wall and the males stand protectively in front of the females.

No one dared intercept him as he made his way to his parlour where his knights waited.

He entered with a chilling breeze following on his footsteps. There was a new coldness in his eyes, a cold that did not bode well for any that crossed him. His knights knelt immediately in subservience.

“Avery.”

The knight jumped to his feet, head still bowed. “My Lord.”

“There is a mess in the eastern forest, clean it up.”

If Avery was confused he did not show it. “Yes, my Lord.” He nearly ran out of the room.

“Malfoy.”

The blonde stood and pressed a hand over his heart, head down. “Lord King, I am at your service.”

Tom ignored his arse-kissing. “How is my bride?”

Malfoy’s lips tipped down. “My Lord?”

Tom threw out his hand and Malfoy went flying into a wall. He slid to the floor with a groan.

“How is Hermione?” The fae king hissed.

“I don’t know, my Lord,” the blonde said honestly, trying and failing to sit upright. There was a sharp pain in his side every time he inhaled. “My mother tells me she sleeps most of the day and barely touches her meals. She only gets up to use the lavatory and read one book in the last two days, which I’m lead to believe is uncommon.”

Tom fell into his seat heavily. “Leave us,” he ordered the others. They silently filed out of the room and privacy wards fell into place as soon as the door closed behind them.

Tom waved his hand and Draco’s pain eased. At his king’s nod, he took a seat in front of the large desk.

“Apologies, Malfoy,” Tom sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. All the blood he’d shed to quell his frustration had not been enough, it seemed.

“There is no need,” Draco quickly appeased.

Tom’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Has she truly not eaten?” he asked softly.

Malfoy swallowed. “Not a full meal since you last visited her chamber.”

 _Not since you made her cry_ , Tom’s mind whispered.

“Am I doing the right thing?” he wondered out loud.

Draco startled at his lord’s question. “My Lord?”

“How did you get Astoria to marry you, Draco?”

Draco didn’t know what to focus on first. The fact that his king had just asked him such a personal question or called him by his given name.

“I-I courted her, my Lord,” he said.

“How?”

“Uh, first I sent her gifts to catch her interest and proclaim my intentions.”

“I have done that,” Tom mumbled to himself.

Draco looked at his king but when Tom said nothing, continued, “Then I asked her if she would be partial to my company.”

“Asked?” Tom interrupted.

Draco’s eyes furrowed. “Yes, of course. She is a highborn fae, a lady of repute, I could not just _take_ her like a—oh, _oh_.” Draco made the connection and would have smiled if his lord’s stare did not slightly terrify him.

“What?”

“My Lord, I… what you are asking me, does it have anything to do with the witch?”

Tom’s jaw clenched, and he grudgingly replied, “Yes.”

Draco stifled a chuckle. “My Lord, witches are not the same as fae, our customs and traditions, they will not be enough to win your lady over.”

“The what do you suggest I do,” Tom snapped.

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you tried asking her what she wants?”

Tom’s lips jutted out in a pout that he hastily smoothed out. “She…she wants to leave. She wants nothing to do with me.”

“Do you know why?” Draco pressed.

Tom’s fisted is hands. “I will admit, I have not been the best when taking her feelings into consideration,” he relented.

Draco sent a quick prayer to the God of the Wild and pushed, “Why not? You care for her, right?”

“Of course I do!”

Draco pressed his back further into his seat and willed his heart to beat slower. “You know that, my Lord, but is the Lady aware? Have you made your intentions clear, have you made sure she understands how much you lo—uh, feel for her?”

Tom opened his mouth to reply but snapped it shut quickly. Their last interaction replayed in his mind for the millionth time since he left her room, but this time he looked at it with new eyes.

_“I took what was rightfully mine!”_

By Slytherin, he’d spoken of her as if she were an object.

_“You have what you were after, now let me go.”_

She had been so adamant to leave she’d given him Basilisk. Although Hermione had only had the wand for ten years, that was more of her lifetime spent with it than without, and to just give it away…she must have been extremely desperate.

_“I DO NOT WANT TO BE YOUR ANYTHING!”_

She’d all but shouted her feelings and yet he still refused to listen.

_“Your personal feelings play no part in my decision. Like I said: you were promised to me and I am collecting.”_

Had he truly said that? By the Wild, he was tactless. Tom dropped his head in his hands, fingers fisted in his dark tresses. He had to fix this.

“My Lord,” Draco called tentatively.

Tom snapped out of his inner turmoil. “Gratitude, Malfoy. I will…heed your advice.”

That was clearly a dismissal. Draco bowed his head and stood. “Of course, my Lord. Anything you need.”

He had his hand on the door handle when Tom spoke, “Actually, Malfoy, would you gather the knights and Hermione and meet me in the great hall.” Though it was phrased as a request it was clearly anything but. 

“Now, my Lord?” Draco questioned, taking in his king’s appearance.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Is that a problem?”

“No no, but, uh…” he trailed off and looked pointedly at Tom’s bloody tunic.

Tom’s face blanked. “Tonight,” he amended.

“Of course, my Lord.” Draco couldn’t help the small chuckle.

* * *

Her head was a mess; she couldn’t think.

When had her life gone so wrong?

Hermione laid prone in the large and luxurious bed. Since she’d dismissed Narcissa, the fae had sent in a dark-haired female to try and coax the witch out of her depressed state. She wasn’t successful.

“My Lady,” Narcissa’s sweet voice spoke through the door.

“Come in,” Hermione said, voice a rasp from disuse.

The door opened and Narcissa entered, a lovely figure in a pale lavender dress, and a guilty look.

Hermione’s heart thudded. “What is it?”

“My Lady, it’s the king.” She wouldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes.

“What about him?” the witch asked breathily.

“He has returned, and he requests your presence. Now.”

Hermione’s head flopped back onto the pillows. “Do you know why?”

“I don’t mean to presume, but it might be to discuss vows.”

“Vows?” Hermione echoed.

“Your wedding vows for tomorrow,” the blonde fae said remorsefully.

Hermione closed her eyes against a torrent of fresh tears.

“Is that all?” she croaked.

Narcissa nodded.

“Okay,” Hermione said, resigned. “Okay.”

She gathered her strength and tossed the covers off her.

“Make me ready, Narcissa.” If she was going down, she was going down with one last fight.

* * *

_What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone._

_—Alexander Pope, Essay on Man and Other Poems_

* * *

 She walked into a large hall with Narcissa at her side and two knights at her back.

The hall was sparsely decorated. Darks wall, a few portraits, a large candle chandelier and exactly one chair.

She saw him lounged on the single chair as if it were a throne. His knights were stationed around the room, twelve in total.

Narcissa curtsied and gestured a hand at Hermione.

“My Lady Hermione Granger,” she announced.

Hermione stepped forward, gait steady, eyes locked on the fae king.

Tom’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of her. His lips twitched, and he would have smiled if he’s façade allowed it.

His joy was such a dichotomy to her infernal unhappiness. She hated it.

Tom stood from his seat and addressed his knights, Narcissa having departed immediately after announcing Hermione, leaving the witch as the sole female in a room of dangerous fae.

“Knights, behold Lady Hermione, my bride.” Modest clapping followed his words.

Hermione pressed her lips together, drew her shoulders back and steeled her nerves. She channeled all her negativity into single-minded determination. She would not lose her focus, she would remain calm, she would get out of here, she chanted to herself.

“I am no bride of yours,” she said clearly.

Tom’s eyes flashed to something darker for a second before they reverted to their charcoal grey.

“Of course, we are not yet married, but that will be amended soon enough.”

Hermione ground her teeth together to keep from retorting recklessly. Control, she reminded herself. “I will never be you bride, not tomorrow and not ten years from now.”

Some of the knights placed a hand on their sword, baring teeth at the insolence of the witch.

Tom put up a hand and they eased back.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” His eyes flashed in warning.

Hermione took a deep breath. “We’ve had this conversation before, _Tom_ ,” she reminded him.

Tom stepped closer to her, leaning his head down to stare at her upturned face. “And I am willing to compromise, take your wishes into consideration, but we _will be married_.”

He made to walk back to his seat. Hermione darted a hand out, grabbed ahold of the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled.

He turned to her with wide, shocked eyes. His knights went still.

“There is nothing to consider, I will not marry you. Ever.”

He grasped the hand holding his hair, and forcefully removed it from his person.

“You _will_ be my queen,” he told her, dark eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments.

“I won’t,” she said with a daring flare in her eyes.

His grip on her hand tightened until she felt her wrist bones grind together and had to clench her teeth to suppress a whimper.

“Then you will be my whore,” he hissed, the sounds sibilant and unintelligible to all but her ears.

The slur hurt, it _hurt_ right in the heart he had ruined once upon a time. It hurt so bad she struggled to breath until she remembered he should not have this power – _any_ power – over her. She leaned closer, encroaching on his space and making his knights draw in a collective, horrified breath.

“No, I won’t,” she said again, the words as sharp as razors. Refusing to yield, to bend.

He snarled at her and pulled her into his body with a harsh tug. She crashed into him and it shouldn’t have made her stomach flutter the way it did, her hands shouldn’t have flattened themselves on his chest as naturally as they did, his eyes shouldn’t have strayed to her lips and stayed fixated as they did.

He dropped his head to the crook of her neck. She tensed, thinking he would rip out her throat like the savage nundus from Luna’s stories.

Yet she only felt the hot whisper of his breath on her sensitive skin. “Please,” he said – pleaded, as if he were a mere peasant on his knees before a god and not a king that ruled the most powerful and feared supernatural.

“You don’t need me, fae king,” she said not unkindly, although all her instincts were shouting at her to rip into him while his guard was lowered, to decimate him until there was nothing left but the wicked horns that had haunted her dreams for years. “You have your wand, let me go.”

His arms went around her and he held on tight. He was gripping onto her like a lifeline that would cease to hold him up if he let go; she pretended it was a restraint.

“Please,” he repeated, groaning as his tongue flicked out to taste her skin. She exhaled shakily at the fleeting pleasure his touch stirred.

She gathered every single shred of composure and shoved him hard enough to loosen his hold on her. “No,” she said firmly, still pushing on his chest.

That was all it took for him to become that snarling, mad creature again. This _being_ in front of her, he was Tom no longer.

Voldemort captured Hermione’s wrists and held them tighter than ever. The witch couldn’t withhold her wince as she felt the beginnings of violet bruises take root on her skin.

“Malfoy!” the creature roared.  A blonde fae whose features she vaguely recognized almost stumbled in his haste to get to his king’s side.

“What am I doing wrong?”

The question took all by surprise, but none more than the brunette in the devil’s clutches.

Malfoy’s grey eyes (Narcissa’s eyes, Hermione realised) darted between the fae king and the witch. “I think you’re hurting her,” Malfoy mumbled.

“You think?” Voldemort seethed.

“You are,” Hermione said shortly.

“Be quiet, witch!”

Hermione’s cheeks colored at the scolding, she turned her eyes away and looked at the door. It was a fair distance away but there were two knights near it. Could she make it if she ran?

“Advise me, Malfoy!” Voldemort commanded.

“I-I – my Lord, I—”

“Speak!” Voldemort’s breathing was labored and his finger’s pressed deeper into the wrists he was holding as he grew more agitated. Hermione cried out, Voldemort ignored her, Malfoy looked at her in alarm.

“My Lord, please, let her go.” The words were a plea but the effect they had on Voldemort was staggering.

The fae king released Hermione and reared back as if struck.

“Let her – go?” He sounded so very confused that a part of Hermione wanted to reach out and cradle him to her chest.

But that part was miniscule, negligible, so Hermione rubbed her bruised wrists and stepped well out of his reach.

“Yes, my Lord. It would be for the best,” Malfoy spoke softly, comfortingly. The other Knights of Walpurgis squirmed. They were clearly uncomfortable with the sight of their ruler so downtrodden. 

“I can’t,” Voldemort stressed. “I cannot, I will not.” He was no longer speaking to anyone, his ramblings were turned to himself but said aloud, not meant to be heard but uncontrollable in his distressed state.

“You must,” Malfoy urged.

Hermione watched all this with a blank face and cold eyes. She should toss him around on a witchwind, she should turn the swords of his knights on him, she should reach into him with her magic and shred his insides.

She did none of those, just watched as the most frightening creature in her life and dreams fell apart before her eyes – as he abandoned the Voldemort and retook the simple, mortal name Tom. And she _relished_ it.

No more, she decided, no longer would she look over her shoulder on windy nights in paranoia. No longer would she wound her magic tight around her in preparation for another visit, another attack.

No longer would she be afraid.

She stepped towards Tom, each step a reckoning of her unbridled dauntlessness. He straightened when her chest brushed against his. She looked up at him and he down at her, but their roles were reversed.

There was something broken in his eyes, a deep sadness that she would have never associated with him. And in her brown gaze, Tom saw fire and ice clashing and colliding, creating a storm so hot it felt cold. He shuddered.

When she spoke, it was controlled, collected, searing in its intent and intensity. “I _will_ find a way to break this bond.”

He believed her. How could he not, when she was so brilliant and brave, so determined to rid herself of the _monster_. Tom felt as if he were swaying on his feet. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep for a long, long time, but he forced them open because this was the last time he was ever going to see her, he was sure of it.

“I am going to leave, and you will not stop me – none of you will,” she addressed him and his knights  “I am going to leave, and you will never, ever come after me again.”

She looked at him then, right into his eyes. Whatever she saw must have been enough, because the next moment she spun on her heel and walked, unhurried, to the doors.

He let her go.

And when the doors closed behind her, he whisked himself to the deepest part of his lands, far, far away from the line of ash trees. There, he fell apart.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

**my**   **heart lingers in your hands**

**Chapter 6**

* * *

_You are what I never knew I always wanted._

_—Fools Rush In_

* * *

 Her parents were waiting for her when she broke through the tree line, Luna at their side.

Tears she’d suppressed while she rushed through the faelands flowed freely down her cheeks and Hermione ran to her parents, crashing into her mother’s arms and sobbing.

“You’re safe now. He won’t ever get you again,” her mother whispered. Her father was a steady presence at her back, a barrier between her and anything that might try to come after her.

Luna looked into the trees, a frown on her face. This wasn’t the way it was meant to be.

The blonde looked back at her crying friend. Distress, that was what she sensed, but it was hazy, blocked, like one side of a closed off bridge.

This wasn’t the way it was meant to be.

_I will help you, Hermione_ , the Whisperer vowed. _I promise._

* * *

Months passed, and Hermione settled back into her life before the faelands.

Her hand often strayed to her hip in search of Basilisk, and each time her heart broke a little more when she realised it was no longer hers.

Months passed, and Hermione grew more restless, weary, purposeless.

Her previous hobbies were a nuisance. It was days before she picked up a book, and even more days before she bore through and finished it. She rarely took visitors and mostly ensconced herself in her room and pulled open that floorboard. Ashamed but unable to help herself, she caressed her hidden treasures and thought of him.

She was no longer afraid, as she’d promised herself she would not be – just broken. (Like him.)

At the urging of her worried parents and close friends, she visited a shrink and spun a tale that was as close to the truth as she dared.

She spoke of a boy that had hurt her in her childhood, a boy she’d been foolish enough to trust because he had a beautiful voice.

She spoke of the boy giving her gifts and making her feel special but still afraid. She recounted how frightened she’d been when he had confronted her when she was fifteen, how she’d thought he would hurt her and her friend. How he hadn’t, and she’d been confused, but relived and grateful.

She told of the boy becoming a man and whisking her away to a faraway place, giving her the best of everything and keeping her imprisoned in a gilded cage. His friend convinced him to let her go—

His friend convinced him to let her go...

She told of how _he had_ _let her go_ – and then she remembered. 

* * *

Luna stood in the doorway of her best friend’s room, watching.

Hermione was in the process of zipping up her jacket when the blond spoke. “You’re going to him, aren’t you?”

Hermione paused, hands dropping to her sides. “Yes.” There was no point in lying.

Luna came to stand in front of her friend and squeezed the brunette’s hands. “I think you’re doing the right thing.”

Hermione blinked. “You do?”

Luna nodded enthusiastically. “This bond you two have, it would not have formed if you weren’t meant for each other.”

Hermione’s brows drew together. “But then that day in my room, when you zapped him with magic—”

“He wasn’t ready for you yet, and neither were you for him,” Luna pointed out.

“And now I am?”

Luna smiled. “You both are.”

* * *

He stood half-shadowed in the ash trees when she arrived.

“You came back,” he observed, voice monotone.

“I did,” she responded, wringing her hands nervously.

She shuffled her feet and squirmed when minutes went by and he said nothing.

Then: “Why are you here? Have you come back to gloat?” His monotonous tone hadn’t changed.

“What?” Nervousness gave way to confusion and she looked at him directly for the first time. Illuminated by moonlight, his beauty seemed fragile in that moment. There were slight bags under his eyes, marring his perfect complexion, and his eyes were dull.

“I felt it, the bond, you’ve done something to it. You found a way to break it, didn’t you? And now you’ve come to torture me.” He sounded so resigned, so unlike that opprobrious king that had captured her.

“No, no,” Hermione shook her head. She closed the last few feet between them and crossed into the faelands, into the territory he had not left since she’d walked out of his hall. She slowly lifted a hand and laid it on his cheek gently. He jolted and stared at her with wide eyes. “I came back because I missed you.”

“Missed me?” he echoed, unable for a moment to focus on anything but the warmth of her hand on his skin.

“Yes,” she breathed, rising up on her tip toes. She was drawn to him and, finally, she had no reason to deny it.

Tom reared back when her breath hit his lips. He put distance between them and leaned heavily against a tree.  “No no no. You rejected me, ran away from me, told me never to come after you. And now—why?” His hands were clenched so hard his knuckles had turned paler than his ashen skin.

Hermione’s heart cried out at the sight of him, at the sight she’d caused. 

“I wasn’t ready,” she said, a pathetic parody of Luna’s words.

Tom looked at her incredulously and her cheeks warmed in embarrassment. Why did it sound so much more believable when her dreamy friend said it?

“Ready for what?” Tom asked.

Hermione took a deep breath. This was it. She couldn’t rely on Luna’s words. She had to tell him what she’d realised that day in the shrink’s office. What she’d always felt but never knew until she _remembered_.

“Ready for this, the bond…us. You asked me once why I couldn’t remember that night you made the bargain, and some things are still fuzzy, but I can recall the important parts now. Such as you saving me and the bond that formed.”

He was listening to her avidly, eyes never once straying from her face. His undivided attention made Hermione flush with a pleasant tingling.

“Nana,” Hermione paused, unsure how to explain what she still didn’t fully understand. “She did a spell on me before she died. I didn’t even remember it until a few days ago. But when I did, all sorts of feelings and memories came rushing back and it took me awhile to make sense of them.”

“The crone blocked your memories?” he asked angrily.

“No! Nothing like that, but it was a sort of ward.”

His eyes furrowed, rightly confused. “A ward, on a person?”

Hermione nodded decisively. “Yes, it didn’t make much sense to me either, until I researched.”

“And what did you find?” He’d moved closer, whether intentionally or not she didn’t want to think about. She was just glad to have him nearer to her.

“I found that my fear of you was irrational, unfounded most of the times. I found that I never really hated you, that I forgot about that night in the clearing too quickly for it to be just time. I found that the ward enhanced my ability to suppress traumatizing events and focal points attached to it.”

“Your heart wound and me,” he connected, shame colouring his tone when he spoke of her past injury.

Hermione nodded. “Yes. I also became exceedingly angry in your presence, always had an intense need to get away.”

He turned his head away before she could see the pain in his eyes. “Was that the ward, too?” he asked bitterly.

“Partly. I—you did make me angry very easily, but the ward spurred it to illogical heights.”

“What was the purpose of all this?”

She shrugged. “To protect me, I guess. Nana never trusted you and she told me to never, either. She made the bargain because I was dying and she was desperate. She meant for my instincts to keep me away from you for as long as it could.”

“What does this all mean, Hermione?”

She shivered at the sound of her name on his lips. She stepped closer to him, putting her hand back on his face and turning it towards her. “It means that I don’t hate you, never have, in fact. It means that when you let me go, my magic saw that as your way of protecting me and it finally trusted you enough to relinquish the ward. It means that we were meant to be.”

He stared deep into her eyes, an unidentifiable emotion churning in his.

Hermione’s heart stuttered. Could she have been wrong? Did he no longer want her?

She opened her mouth to apologise and leave when he surged forward.

He crashed into her body and knocked the wind out of her. Her lips parted in surprise and he took that opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth, twisting and turning and exploring every inch of her. His hands grasped her hips and pressed her flush against him.

When he finally broke free to allow her to breathe, she gasped in lungfuls of air while he latched his mouth onto her pulse point.

“Never letting you go again,” he said between feverish kisses.

“Yes,” she moaned.

Tom placed his mouth by her ear and rasped, “Mine.”

“Yours,” Hermione immediately agreed.

He unfurled his wings to their full, glorious length.

He paused kissing her long enough to say, “Hang on.” She looped her arms around his neck and held him tight.

With one mighty stroke of his wings, they shot through the night sky.

* * *

They landed on a bed of sweet grass and wild rose petals. Hermione’s curls were sprawled in a dark halo around her moonlit face. Tom lost his breath. _Mine. This is mine and only mine. She is mine. She is…magnificent._

His hands busied themselves unzipping her jacket as his mouth trailed her jawline.

“You are the sweetest thing I have ever tasted,” he said on a gasp, pressing his hips more firmly onto hers.

She sat up to help him rid her of the heavy clothing. As soon as her hands were free, they dove into his hair and pushed his face back onto hers. She pushed and pulled, and he obligingly followed her rhythm. One hand remained in his hair as the other slipped under his tunic and splayed possessively over his lower stomach.

He growled at the feel of her satiny hand so close to where he needed her most. By the Wild, he’d been dreaming of this for years, even before he’d admitted to himself how much she meant to him.

Her hand edged his tunic higher and he helped her pull it over his head. He didn’t give her a chance to properly see him before he was at her throat again, nipping, biting, licking. That small taste he’d gotten in the hall had not been enough and now that he had her pliant body underneath him he planned to sample every inch of her she allowed.

She dug blunt nails into his shoulder blades when he sucked just underneath her jaw and he hissed at the sensation.

“Tom,” she groaned deeply, making his cock twitch.

He pushed up on his elbows and hurriedly unbuttoned her blouse, needing to see more of her.

He parted the thin piece of silky material and pressed a straight line of kisses down her front, flicking his tongue over the pebbled peaks of her covered nipples every so often.

“Tom!” she mewled, and he did it again, just to hear that sound again. Impatient hands pushed his face away and her blouse went flying over his shoulder, landing with nary a rustle.

Hermione slid a hand between them and pressed it against the bulge in his trousers. It was his turn to groan now. “Hermione,” he rasped, wanting her touch to be firmer but too occupied with her pleasure to think about his own.

He reached his hand under her and fumbled for a second before the hook of her bra unlatched. Her bra slid down her shoulders and the first thing he saw wasn’t her glistening breasts and dark areolas. His eyes fixed on the jagged scar over her heart and crippling shame crashed into him.

The muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together, eyes shining and cheeks crimson in anger directed at himself.

A hand touched his cheek and gently turned his face. Watery brown eyes filled with pain looked up at him. Tom swallowed loudly.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was the smallest it had ever been. Hermione bit her lip and nodded, eyes focused on a point over his shoulder, refusing to look at him and see the swirl of emotion in his eyes.

“I was young and foolish and angry, and I-I didn’t know what you meant to me. Hermione, I swear I would never—” he rambled until her finger pressed against his lips, quieting him.

“I won’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. But it was a long time ago and we were both very different then, so let’s just – forget about it for the moment. Please.”

Tom nodded. “Anything,” he said. “Anything for you.”

Her full lips crooked into a shaky smirk. “How about an orgasm?”

Tom’s eyes darkened and a pleased grumble bubbled up from his throat and spilled onto her lips as he leaned down to devour her mouth. “Anything for you.”

* * *

“You are the most beautiful thing in my life,” he declared, reverently stroking her soft skin. They were both naked now, and Hermione had stilled his wandering fingers so she could explore him at her leisure. Currently, he had batted her hands away from his chiseled chest to trace her round breast with the pad of his thumb.

“More beautiful than your crown,” she challenged with a cheeky smile, moaning softly when he flicked her nipple.

“I would give up my crown in a heartbeat if you asked,” he declared firmly, hand never stopping its journey.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Would you truly?” her tone was the lightest bit disbelieving.

He paused, thought, “Two heartbeats,” he amended, cheeks pink at his candor.

She laughed, and it was worth it.

* * *

“Slow down,” she laughed melodically, hands holding his shoulders to still his body.

He gave her a crooked grin that conveyed a sorry she knew he did not really mean.

He thrust again, slower this time, and they made a new rhythm, this one gentler and reaching deeper and in a few more moments, it would have her shattering around him as she came with a cry of his name.

Another gush of warmth flooded her lower stomach as she thought about how he’d look when he shattered along with her.

She clenched harder around him, willing his body into making that image in her head a reality.

_Come to me_ , he’d whispered in her mind that first night they’d met.

Come _for_ me, she now demanded of him with her lust-filled eyes.

Tom’s thrusts became erratic at the look in her eyes. He wanted nothing more than to see her come undone in that moment. He swiped his hand over her bundle of nerves and pressed down hard and she fell over the edge. She cried out his name, face twisted into the most primal of pleasure and magic singing in the few spaces that remained between them.

He pounded harder to reach euphoria with her. Her fluttering walls and clenching spasms delivered him and he came with her name on his lips like a prayer.

* * *

_Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same._

_—Emile Bronte_

* * *

They lay facing each other, still linked more intimately than a simple joining of the bodies.

He moved slowly in and out of her and she matched his pace. Gazes locked, hearts laid bare, their magic an open channel between them, they complemented and completed each other like no two beings had ever before.

It was All Hallows’ Eve and the veils were at their thinnest. Ghosts and spirits alike crossed the veil to witness the oldest wedding rites taking place between a fae and a witch.

“You are my ruin, my making, my benediction, my life,” the ancient words rolled past his lips like the most natural thing, like they were made for this moment, this moment with her in his arms and him enveloped in her and them in perfect harmony.

“In this life and every other, I am yours, as you are mine” she responded instinctively.

He looked at her with utter adoration in his eyes and her face reflected the same.

“With these words, I bind myself to thee and promise to cherish that which I have been blessed with,” he vowed.

“With these words, we become one soul, two bodies and a mind shared, for eternity,” she completed.

Tom leaned forward and they sealed their lives with a kiss.

When they shattered, they did it together, and it was the loveliest thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original end and the story can stand alone with six chapters, but I feel there’s more to this story than just overcoming wards set by pesky grandmothers.  
> From here, the chapters will be shorter (drabble-like, I guess) and will detail their lives as king and queen of the fae, bonded soulmates, and hemrione trying to bridge the gap between fae and witches and tom reluctantly going along with it.  
> Plus, I reckon Harry’s going to be pissed to know that his best friend is married to the guy who inadvertently killed his parents, and won’t that cause a snit in tom’s sex life?  
> This is a WIP and I’m open to suggestions or just stuff you guys would like to read about. Please be considerate about my updating schedule because I have other stuff I’m working on and high school is my top priority.


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